


September in Venice

by papercutperfect



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papercutperfect/pseuds/papercutperfect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ever done it on a balcony? A balcony overlooking a moonlit Venice?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	September in Venice

It was long past midnight when Michael finally stepped into the humid Venetian streets, relishing the deep scent of dark Canal water and late-Summer-early-Fall breeze that washed away the clinging aroma of alcohol and cigarettes.

The numerous parties had been fun, passing from one to the next in dizzying blurs of gleeful people slamming him on the back, wringing his hand, taking his photograph. He cringed at the mere thought of some of those photos, no doubt showing him more than a little glassy-eyed the more free cocktails were pressed into his hand. He could hardly say no; the parties were for him, after all.

Best Actor. _Jesus._

Winning such an amazing award at a highly fastidious event like the Venice Film Festival was, well… surreal, to say the least. He hadn’t expected anything like that when Steve had first approached him about Shame. Hell, he hadn’t even imagined such a thing would ever happen to him when he first stumbled into acting, and now here he was; swaying slightly in a blissful daze on the sparkling streets of Lido, Venice, breathing in warm night air with a trophy the size of a baby dolphin left upstairs with Steve.

The buzz of the festival had left the city yawning with sleepy contentment, brightly colored streamers and crimson banners hanging tree to tree, the soft rustle of litter on the wind a strange comfort after the pounding beat of dance music. Stars in the inky sky above, winking like the _snap snap snap_ of camera flashes.

There was only one thing missing, a big thing. A thing that had stopped him from fully enjoying the evening as much as he could have, a constant thrill of excitement at the back of his head that had him religiously checking his watch every half hour.

A specifically James McAvoy-shaped thing.

It was a huge disappointment that James hadn’t been invited to the event. Not that it would stop him from coming, of course, but it did mean that they had to be a lot more secretive about it. If James had been invited then it wouldn’t look so strange to see them constantly huddled together, stopping to pose for photos and autographs, or sneaking away to a quiet corner for a drink and private chat.

Instead, James had promised to fly out from London late that evening, meet him at Michael’s hotel under cover of darkness like some Bond spy. Somehow, the thought of those huge blue eyes and welcoming arms opening for him were much more exciting than MTV interviews, and a hell of a lot more fun than dance music and exotic cocktails.

His shoes slapped off the concrete as Michael jogged through the empty streets, past darkened buildings and quiet homes, feeling oddly free and childlike; dancing beneath gently swishing trees and the soft hum of blurred streetlamps. The smell of flowers on the air, piano music wafting from some high-opened window. God, he loved this place.

Turning a corner, his hotel came into view, a grand thing that he’d felt rather awkward in when he’d first arrived, bedecked in a simple white Henley and flip-flops. Still did now, really, in his very expensive Italian suit.

And there - finally, finally - stood before an illuminated festival advertisement, was the distinct shadow of James.

Michael’s heart flipped and twirled happily in his chest, doubling in speed and hammering against his ribs as James turned to look at him, a huge smile alighting his face. Floppy brown hair was a little longer than last he’d seen it, even longer than James’ Charles Xavier days, and fuck, did it suit him. The slight scruff of facial hair, a smart suit beneath his coat - he looked stunning.

Neither of them needed to exchange hello’s as Michael reached him in a few last long strides, smiling broadly when met with those open arms, wrapping himself around James’ shorter frame. Laughter, giddy and wild, hands gripping shoulders and arms and napes of necks. This was what he’d been waiting for all day, from the very moment he’d heard his name called out earlier, heard the cheers and shouts blow the roof as he stumbled up to the stage and took the trophy with shaking hands; all he’d wanted to do was share that joy with James, make goofy jokes and laugh the night away with this intoxicating man.

Breaking away only enough to look down into James’ upturned face, Michael nodded sideways at the deserted streets, “Did anyone see you?”

“No. I’ll bet everyone was too blinded by the light bouncing off your massive trophy to notice me,” James grinned and ran a hand down the lapel of Michael’s suit, “Congratulations, by the way. I’m proud of you.”

“Why, thank you,” Michael waggled his eyebrows in false self-importance, “Best Actor, not too bad for a ginger, right?”

“Only because you didn’t say much and had your cock out for most of the film,” James dodged the playful swipe aimed at him with a laugh.

Michael reached out, caught the man’s fingers, tugged him through the revolving glass doors of his hotel. Stark white inside, polished marble annoyingly loud under their feet even as they tip-toed through the quiet lobby. Luck seemed on their side, undisturbed by bellhops or other guests as they stumbled, snorting into fits of giggles, up the stairs.

Michael was still feeling the effects of one too many good cocktails, James’ eyes far too bright under the electric light, his lips - god, his lips, shining like fresh blood on snow in that pale face, and it didn’t help that he kept licking at them, and why the hell hadn’t they kissed yet?

Halfway up the stairs, both slightly breathless from sprinting six solid flights, Michael grabbed a handful of James’ suit jacket and tugged him back with a dangerous wobble. Those indecent lips formed a protest that quickly died when Michael sealed their mouths together in a hot, luxurious kiss. James tasted of vanilla and coffee, heady and strong and wet; Michael lost his balance trying to push for more, tumbled them both back against the stairs with a loud ‘oof’ from James.

The Scotsman laughed and shoved at his shoulders, “As fun as shagging on the stairs might be when we get back home, I’d rather not have to fork out the hefty fine for defiling hotel property and risk getting my bare arse splayed all over Tumblr, so come on.”

Three more flights, a moment while Michael fumbled for his keys and tried not to get too distracted by James’ tongue running across his ear, and eventually they were stumbling through the door, joined at hands and lips.

It felt far too long since they’d been together like this; weeks, maybe even months, rigorous filming sessions and press releases keeping them apart. It was times like this, slipping beneath the hungry radar of the paparazzi, when they could finally fall into each others arms in the relative privacy of hotel rooms and trailers. Michael wasn’t even sure what this was between them, whether they were together or just having a laugh and a roll-around. It certainly didn’t feel like a no-strings deal, and every parting was beginning to ache just that little bit more.

James’ hands slid the length of Michael’s torso, tugged irritably at his belt. Michael grinned in the darkness of the room, “Eager, are we?”

James’ answer was more of a growl than a voice, that deliciously assertive tone that shaped the vowels of his accent, a voice Michael liked to think only he got to hear, “I’ve had to sit back and listen to people talk about how bloody amazing your body is all damn day. I’ve had to watch you on live internet feeds while you got your award, the whole world turning their eyes on you and your dick on a twelve foot screen,” he ripped at Michael’s belt, deft fingers twisting leather and cool metal, “I’ve had enough of waiting and wanting and biting my lip. I need you, right fucking now,” a beat, a cocky smile, “but you can keep your suit on; you look pretty dapper in it.”

Unable to even purr a laugh, Michael settled for swiftly untying James’ coat, pushing it off his shoulders to pool on the floor.

James seemed to have yet more ideas for their evening, suddenly walking them blindly backward, knocking over unlit lamps and coffee tables until they were flush against the glass door to the balcony.

“Ever done it on a balcony? A balcony overlooking a moonlit Venice?”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What on Earth had Michael done in a past life to deserve someone like James.

The warm night air cooled overheated skin; a still night, little more than a light breeze as caressing fingers through his hair, across the rough stubble of his cheeks. Strong smell of the water now, a black glisten on the horizon, and oh, the view - pinpricks of a million lights, the beautiful floating city of Venice. San Marco just visible, golden and illuminated in the darkness, a mirage reflected on the canal like a fantasy world.

James smiled wickedly, and the whole thing seemed obsolete in comparison.


End file.
